The River Speaks

Widdershins we walked, on the Longest Day, late, as the sun descended to a bed of pink cloud. Around the lanes we walked, the lanes that lay low in the mountains of hedge. Dog's whitish fur was bouncing back light: our trotting glow worm. Through the tree shadows cow cries came, and dinosaur snorts that startled Dog. 

Since then the feverish time is spent, hot, melted without a pot.

Boy finishes his exams: is making frenetic plans for moving on: The Novel is ready to start rounds of editing: this is all change. We do not know what will happen.

Our little world turns.

But in the hedges bloom meadowsweets and wild rose. The path to the river is light and shade together. The river water muddied and I cannot see my feet. The cooling feel on these sore feet is calming and then the way the light is playing on the surface, and the smallest glimpse of rock: it seems to be inviting me in. 

The river has something to convey. 

Blind feet slide, several times slip, no harm comes. Only laughing. And the river says Trust The Process. 

And there is the fallen tree that all last summer was our very Dragon in the river, moved now and wedged by storms, with a branch lying at the perfect height for a mid-river seat. Dog swims, so happy she forgets to chase ducks. I am happy, sat on the oak branch, watching the water sparkle. I ask Dog if this could be any better. Two blue-black metallic damsonflies appear. I ask the river if this could any more epic: one damsonfly alights on my hand, a heart shaped rose petal floats by.

I trust the process, I tell the river, I trust. I remember how.